


Feels Like Quiet

by backwards_wordsmith



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cole (Dragon Age) Talks A Lot, F/M, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Skyhold, autistic inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 13:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7173944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backwards_wordsmith/pseuds/backwards_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She needs his quiet, the world is too loud and it makes her feel wrong. He smells like home, like the cold wind and a hearth fire. She wants Cole to stop, but she doesn't, because she can’t get the words out of her own mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feels Like Quiet

Herald is not an easy name to carry.

It weighs on her. She doesn’t let people see it, not willingly, but sometimes even a warrior needs to rest. Cassandra helps, where she can. When they’re in the field, she takes it on herself to keep the focus of their enemies. The Seeker is always the first into combat. It gives the Herald the chance to collect herself, to gather her wits and heft her massive weapon. And then, the slaughter begins. The Herald is a whirlwind one moment, swinging her razor through humans and beasts alike. And then, suddenly, she is the avalanche, bearing down on a group of enemies Cassandra gathers for her, striking the ground hard enough to shake it from beneath their feet. And, then, she changes again - the Herald becomes lightning, striking with the pommel of her weapon and cutting down three men before the first can recover, only to receive a deathblow in reward. The Herald is a sight to behold on the battlefield. She does not hold back - doesn’t even know how to, really. Those who haven’t seen her fight don’t believe the kind woman can be a demon in her own right.

Solas, too, tries to lift a corner of her burden. He knows more of the Fade than any other, and does his best to educate her. She is an intelligent woman, and grasps the concepts easily enough, but there is too much else on her mind, and she is often pulled away by something else. Solas does what he can for her, healing and protecting her in battle, freezing enemies to allow her a moment to prepare one of her great, earth-shattering attack. The ground cracks under her mighty weapon, felling enemies who dare to stand before her. The elf, afterward, looks after her joints and her back, because though her strength and size are great boons and are used well, it all weighs on her, and at the end of the day she might sometimes be incapacitated from the pain of battle. Those who haven’t seen her bite back the pain would hardly believe such a sturdy human could be incapacitated by her own weapon.

Varric does his part, as well. He takes it upon himself to catch her foes off guard so that they can’t catch her. A bolt to the throat stops some in their tracks - a distraction halts others long enough for her to swing her great weapon overhead, only for it to come crashing down on theirs. He tells her stories of his time with the Champion of Kirkwall, of the pranks they’d pull and of the burden he’d carried. Still did, through Varric kept that to himself in case the Seeker heard him. The dwarf always found a way to lighten the Herald’s mind, get a laugh from her lungs and ale in her hand. She appreciated it, and when someone dared to target him, she’d lunge, a furious roar tearing from her throat, a massive battle axe swinging through their torso. He made her laugh, drug her up out of the mud. Few who saw the woman, whose mind always flew faster than a dragon, and often more erratic than a drunkard, would say she was tired of the world.

Her inner circle saw the burden she carried - each helped lift it in their own way. Cassandra, Solas, and Varric had been the first three by her side, but they welcomed, not always with open arms, those who saw the Herald’s burden and wanted to help. When she became the Inquisitor, it was obvious that she needed more.

“Kid, why’re you always so busy?” Varric asks, hefting the mug to get a refill from the barmaid. “Working, signing, talking, fighting, doing. Go, go, go. Maybe you should go somewhere nice - take a vacation. Take me along with you, I need to get away.”

“From what?” Cassandra asks dryly. “You hardly do anything.”

“Hey, I help!” Varric cries. “You wound me, Seeker. I do my part just like everyone else here.”

The Inquisitor - or, as she was known to her friends, Damran Trevelyan - rewards Varric with a laugh. “Varric, the only time I see you doing something is when someone’s about to tear my throat out from behind. Not that I don’t appreciate your interference, mind, but don’t claim you need a vacation. This is a vacation!”

“Too true,” Dorian agrees, raising his mug for a toast. A taste leaves a nasty snarl on his face. “Ugh, disgusting. More, please.”

“I’m surprised you can hold as much as you do,” Blackwall comments, taking a bite of mutton pie. 

“I’m surprised he can hold anything,” Sera interjects, “Bein’ Vint ‘n all, ain’t they all supposed t’be crazy and some such?”

“I think you have me confused with yourself, dear Sera,” Dorian counters. “Besides, I’m a pariah. Clearly, I am the exceptional beauty they couldn’t bear to look at for fear of seeing their own ugliness.”

“Ech,” Sera sticks her tongue out, only to have Bull try to pinch it. The massive Qunari had come out of nowhere, snuck up behind her, and she screeches and jumps on the table to reach his back, trying to pull his head around by the horns. They know he does it to lighten the mood, to try and help Damran ease further away from the black mood she sometimes finds.

“Get it off me!” He stomps around, pretending to be angry. Damran has her head on the table, laughing. She was drunk, but it was alright, because Blackwall always got her into her chambers safely. He was one of few who could properly navigate all the stairs while drunk.

The tavern was full, but the corner of the first floor was theirs whenever they were in, and no one minded. No one dared to mind when the Inquisitor and her Inner Circle wanted to have fun. The last who tried had been stared down by some of the most dangerous people the Inquisition had to offer after making their leader feel bad enough to leave. No one wanted her to feel bad.

They ended the night on a good note, as they did most nights, and Blackwall manages to get her halfway across the courtyard before she stopped him. “Wai’,” she says, stumbling to a halt. She had drunk a bit too much. She finds the well, pulls up a bucket, and dunks her head in. She gives it a few solid shakes, and smiles. “Okay, I’m good.” Her stumbling had lessened, but now she was wet.

“Are you sure that was a good idea?”

“No.” She smiles widely. “But I already did it. I wanna go check on Cullen.” She calls everyone by name outside of formal circumstances. “He’s always up much too late. Sometimes so late it’s early. C’mon.”

She stumbles away a few steps and Blackwall hurries to support her, his arm around a waist that was thick enough with muscle and fat to rival his own. It was necessary, what with her waving a massive two-hander around like it was a pen. She manages to walk straight, for the most part. They are joined partway through by Cole, who silently walks on her other side. She enjoyed the spirit’s company, and as some of them found out, depended on him to express her emotions when she couldn’t. There always seemed to be something blocking her from saying important things. Well, things that were important to her.

“The bottle mocks him, calls out, it would be too easy - too easy, and so he resists. Paces, the feet falling on the floor help him forget. For a moment, the world narrows, it stops shaking quite so bad. It will come back, come with whispers and whips but for now he is better. He will be better.”

“Who’re you talkin’ about?” Damran asks, slurring a little.

“Cullen,” Cole answers. “She is out there, always fighting, for peace, for justice, against herself and evil. She is a demon, but one we need, whose rage points inward and spares the rest. She is angry at the world, but it is an anger that changes, burns away the bad. She is better, and I must match that.”

“He’s thinking about me?” she asks. Her eyes clear a bit more as they walk through the cool night air.

“Yes. She is better, what has she suffered to be better? I must suffer, if I am to resist, and I will be better. I must match her, give my best until I can stand. He is quiet, behind the noise. The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains.”

“Still?”

“Yes. He fights.”

Blackwall stays silent as they talk. He can only understand Cole half the time, if he’s paying attention, but Damran’s mind works almost the same as the spirit’s thoughts, on a metaphorical level her friends can hardly understand. She describes people the same way he does, and it makes Blackwall wonder if she’s different from her time in the Fade, if the Mark drew a bit of her out.

“Safe and solid, protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him."

“Why’s he always thinking of me, then?”

“Her smile, small and soft, unsure, not like her outside. It’s intimate the way he looks and he knows he shouldn’t, but you are always there, the stone floor under his feet. There are cracks, but they’re repairing the walls and he wants to do the same for you. He can’t, not until his own walls stop crumbling every night.”

She looked pained now. “Cole,” Blackwall warned.

“It’s fine,” she said. “It’s just different to hear it from someone else.”

“He is the wall to her sides, her back, he will not let harm pass through, he will not. She is the center, the call is hers and he answers, he will not move. Let the mountain fall. He will stand when others fall.”

“Aw,” she smiled. She looked up at Blackwall, smiling. “Didn’t know you thought so highly of me.”

He mumbles an excuse, walks a bit faster. Damran laughs.

“She never says it right, so she quiets her mouth and lets the rest of her talk. Her hands are big, rough, not a woman’s hands but a warrior’s and she fights the darkness, fights the pain and takes it all on so others can rest. She loves, too much she thinks, but she does not change, has seen the other side and fights so others will not have to but she hates the fear in her heart. Leaning against the wall is a way to keep standing, so she does.”

Blackwall knows it is about him, hears what Cole is trying to do. “Alright, the Commander’s up past all these Blighted stairs.”

“I don’t think she can get up all those on her own,” Cole says quietly.

“Pshaw, you watch me.”

“Stubborn woman!” Blackwall curses when she launches herself up the first few stairs. She doesn’t fall, barely, and Cole gets to her first.

“I’ll take her up. You’re tired.”

“I’m more concerned about her than I am tired.”

“I will see her safe,” Cole says. “If I don’t, Cullen will. She is precious, obsidian, strong, dark. He wishes she were a diamond, strong, clear. Takes it back, knows the danger of open hearts. He will hold it all back as long as it keeps her safe. The hurt is his.”

“C’mon,” she mumbled, and continued up the stairs. Blackwall watched them up the first flight, hearing Cole mumble. Satisfied she would be alright with the spirit, he left them, returning to his loft in the stables. It smelled like hay and firewood, and he liked to be where no one expected to find him.

Cole managed to get Damran up the stairs, but at the door, she balked. “It’s alright, he’s probably asleep by now anyway - I don’t want to bother him, you know, he knows what he’s doing-”

“He’s quiet, she likes that - it’s so loud, all the time, it hurts her and it makes her feel wrong. Come on, Damran.” Cole pulls her forward, and she opens the door quietly. Cole disappears, but she knows he is near, anyway.

“Commander?” she calls. “Cullen?”

“What is it?” he says. He is standing at his desk, not looking at her. When he does, he is surprised. “Oh! Inquisitor!” He straightens his back, takes a breath.

“You’re still up working?” Damran asks. Her stumble is gone - she has recovered from the drink, save for the blush on her cheeks. The warmth of the torches fights off the chill of the wind, and she closes the door after giving Cole ample chance to come in after her. He can pass through walls, she knows, but she does it anyway.

“There’s so much to do,” he says, smiling awkwardly. “I - well, you’re still up as well.”

“Yes, but I was at the tavern with the others,” she says, moving forward. He watches her, and his body faces her as she moves across the room. “Not working. I knew you were because you always are. You need to take a break.” His brow furrows. She sees the shadows under his eyes, his cheekbones that stand out over his sunken cheeks. “Are you unwell?” she asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” he says hurriedly, putting his hands on the pommel of his sword. Still in his armour. “Just tired. I should get to rest, as you said.”

“No, hold on now,” she says. “You’re off the lyrium for months now, and now’s when the symptoms get bad, no?”

“I’m fine, Inquisitor,” he insists. 

“Damran.”

“Damran,” he repeats dutifully. Cole appears to her side. Cullen doesn’t see him.

“The name is pleasant in his mouth, he savours the little piece of her she gives him, insists he takes. He wants more, wants and wants and wants, but will not take unless she gives. Needs her. Maker, she is the air I breathe, I tremble with the weight of it, why would you give me this burden? I can take any other but this is too much. Feels as though he will die when her eyes see into his.”

She inhales sharply. “Are you unwell?” Cullen asks, concern written across his face, down his shoulders and he moves closer to her, an inch, two, three, until he is striding around the desk. “You’re red. Oh, yes, you were in the tavern.”

“He pulls back, away, tries to, why would she want you, bottled and chained as you are? Break the bottle, then, but she would not have you. She has the world in her hand, the Fade in her other and you are just... just what? Just. I cannot.”

“Cullen,” Damran starts.

“Damran,” he responds.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” The words are bitten out, a replacement. “Are you not sleeping well?”

“I-” He looks at her, and then down. “The withdrawal makes it hard. I have - nightmares. Night terrors.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He freezes for a moment. She knows Cole is talking to him, because people always have that expression when the spirit reveals their own thoughts to them. (“She needs his quiet, the world is too loud. She hates the fear in her heart, wants to break the chains and thinks, why would he want me? I am cracked and bleeding and broken sharp edges and he is so soft and lingering warmth. He fills in the cracks and what would his lips draw on my skin? I want to feel his hands, rough like mine from the sword, pretend they’re his. He smells like home, cold wind and hearth fire. The snow matches him well, muffles the loudness and lights the night with the fire from the torches.”)

“I should be asking if you’re alright,” Cullen says. “You’ve got the world on your shoulders, yet here are you, concerned for a tired old man.”

“You can’t be that old,” she says, smiling cheekily. 

“I’m thirty-six,” he says dryly. “I feel older.”

“You’ve got some youth left in you,” she teases after a moment. She hadn’t known his age - but it didn’t surprise her. He had been at Kirkwall, a Knight-Commander for a short while. It took some experience.

“Why does she do it? Maker, it hurts, to imagine how she would feel in my arms, it would be so simple but not easy, never easy. Can she see it on my face as clearly as I feel it? Please, Maker. Any other burden.”

She wishes she could pull Cole aside, because hearing that hurt. It hurt because she didn’t know how to say the opposite of what he is thinking. Instead, she smiles. “Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“No, I’m afraid the night passed without that.”

“The tavern had mutton pie tonight, it’s delicious. There’s sure to be some still, and it’s warm.”

“She is warm. I want to feel it on my lips, not the mutton pie. Take it back, pull it back in. Smile.”

Cullen smiles and nods. “Sounds good to me. Honestly, there’s not much else I can do tonight that can’t be done tomorrow morning.” (“I want to be near him, have to be, it’s hard to breathe sometimes and he makes it so easy. An excuse, any excuse, please don’t leave me again. Every day you do and it hurts every time.”)

“Image in my mind that shouldn’t be there, but it is. Her hard body on - in my bed, her hair is spilled over my pillow, she is asleep, and there will be no work done in the morning.”

“I just need to - ah,” he clears his throat, turning away quickly. There is a blush on his cheeks and his ears are reddening. “Clean this up a bit. I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Alright. Make sure to actually come outside.”

“Another image in my mind, it shouldn’t be there but it is, what would she think of me? A dirty old man, disgusting, why would she ever want me to touch her?”

“Cole,” she mutters, swinging the door almost shut. “I want to tell you to stop but I also want you to not stop.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I can’t get the words out to tell him I want to hear it from his mouth, and that hurts me.”

“I know. I’m trying to help.” He is begging her, wordlessly.

“You are helping. Trust me - you are. It’s just me that’s keeping it back right now.”

“Him, too. Eyes are so bright, pulling me in - what have I done to deserve this? Maker, please, let her see me. Hands on his body, an image in his mind, he tries to draw it shut but instead pulls it open. It flows and floods him and Maker, let it stop.” Cole looks up at her. “He wants to take the bottle, thinks it will help. It won’t.”

“He wants to take it right now?” she asks, alarmed.

“No. She is tall, a warrior, it should not be so nice to think of her body, harder than mine, strong, her muscles shift under my hands and her voice-”

“Cole,” she warns. “That’s not a train of thought I want to hear.”

“I thought you did.”

“Not that kind. It makes it hard to concentrate.”

“Hands on her body, her back is strong and broad and she bends under me, Maker she has broken me.”

“Is he coming out anytime soon?” she mutters. The door opens and Cullen shuts it behind him, locking it.

“To the tavern?” he asks.

“I thought that was what we had decided,” she says, smiling. (“It is so easy to smile with him, I feel the torch under my skin, in my breast, I hold back the rest, only let the smile through. There’s a snake around my gut, it’s squeezing the breath out of me when he smiles back.”)

They find the tavern, and it has quieted down. The Inquisitor and her Commander are left alone, the bard strums quietly and does not sing, but sometimes hums. It is the end of the night, and only a few people are left.

“How have you been, Damran?”

“Her name on my tongue, I savour it. Taste it more than the mutton.”

“I’ve been alright. Keeping busy - the issue with Josephine and the Du Paraquette took up a lot of time, but it was more relaxed than some outings I’ve been on.”

“I can only imagine - a polite assassin?”

“Oh, that’s only the half of it.” She grins, and tells him the story, and hears Cole speak when she takes a drink.

“I have her name, her voice, it is not enough, I need to touch her but I will not, Maker, take this burden, I love her too much.”

She finishes the story with her return to Skyhold, and Cullen is laughing. “He made her fetch a locksmith?”

“Yes! I even offered to just break the lock, but apparently the lock was valuable, too. ‘In the family for generations,’” she mocks.

“Some nobles are ridiculous,” Cullen says fondly. His eyes are soft, and do not leave her face. 

“Yeah, well, at least the assassin was nice enough to feed us.”

Cullen laughs, and now she hears what Cole tells him. She doesn’t mind. “He laughs and it takes the air from me, I love his laugh, I love his voice, Maker please let me hear it more, I love him so much it hurts that I cannot speak. I am broken but he smoothes the edges and they don’t hurt like they used to.”

Cullen is still for a moment, looking at her, then swallows and returns to his food. He will not look at her now. “You were right, this is quite good.”

“Helps that it’s warm,” she says, sipping her ale.

“You’re not hungry?” Cullen asks.

“I ate earlier, with the others. Sera, Blackwall, Dorian, Varric, Cassandra, Bull. And Cole, briefly.”

“Quite the crowd.”

“Oh, yeah, the tavern loves us. Not because we pay, mind you, because they won’t let us pay.”

Cullen smiles, and she hears Cole say something, but clears her throat. “Be right back, need to go take a massive shit.”

He choked on his food and she laughed, loudly and breathlessly. His face reddens. “You always do that!” he complains.

“You make it so easy!”

She doesn’t take long, returning when Cullen is finishing his food. He has a mug of warm mead, now, and hers has been replaced with cool water. “So, how was your - ah, massive shit, was it?”

“You’re terrible,” she says fondly. “Worse than you’d have people believe.”

“Well, I am Fereldan,” he says. “Haven’t you heard what the Orlesians are saying?”

“I don’t care much what others have to say about you,” she says. “I prefer to rely on my own judgement. I find it’s usually clearer.”

“You do have a knack for it,” Cullen responds. They calm. He jumps slightly in his chair.

“What is it?” Damran asks.

“Cole,” he growled. “Haven’t you seen him?”

“Off and on,” she shrugs. “As it usually is. Well, he helped me up the stairs to your lovely roofless office on the battlements - you should really let them fix that.”

Cullen’s ears turn red. Damran smiles. “He doesn’t want to tell you,” Cole tells her.

“What’s Cole saying? I assume it’s about me.” She watches him.

“Y-yes, well.”

“Tell him, Damran. It would help. Both of you are so stubborn.”

She wants to tell him that it’s not that easy - but maybe it is. Or at least, maybe it’s that simple. “Cullen,” she starts and at the same moment, he starts to speak.

“Damran, I- Oh, ah, go ahead.”

“No, please, what were you-?”

“I interrupted-”

“He wants to tell you something. Not it, but close. It’s a step.”

“Cullen,” she says firmly. His mouth snaps shut. “I was only going to ask if you enjoyed your pie. Please, speak.”

“Damran,” he says, and nearly loses his nerve, but she can feel Cole shift his focus to Cullen, and it strengthens him. “You are... very important, to the entire Inquisition, to all of Thedas. I wish sometimes you weren’t, so that we could spend more time together, like now. I can’t in good conscience pull you away from that, because I know you’re already being pulled in a thousand different directions. Everyone needs you.”

“Even you?” she asks softly when he pauses.

“I- yes, even me.” His ears are still red, and she fancies they would stay that way all night. “You are... precious to me. One of few I’d venture to call a-a friend.”

She lets her face soften, smiles gently, a small smile. Cullen returns it. “I’m glad, Cullen. You are one of my closest companions.”

“Only bested by Cassandra?” he jokes.

“I depend on Cassandra, and Varric and Solas and the others.” Damran sighs. “They keep me standing. I have been told to be a pillar, but I make a better shelf.”

“That’s not so bad,” Cullen says. “You’re a very sturdy shelf.”

“Ha ha,” she deadpans. And he smiles. “I know what I don’t need. I don’t really know how to get what I do need.”

(“I need you. Safe, I can be not strong for a while. Strong, he will not let me fall. Protecting and proud, I feel stronger when he holds me.”)

“Damran,” he says softly. She barely hears him. “If ever you need to take a break... to put down the burden, and I know it must weigh on you-” He doesn’t know the rest of the words, but she understands.

“Thank you, Cullen.”


End file.
